


Spitting Venom

by BlueMorpha



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Blood and Injury, Book 2: The Wicked King, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, POV Jude Duarte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-09-28 21:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20433017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMorpha/pseuds/BlueMorpha
Summary: Jude tries to hide her arrow wound, but her plans backfire when the blade was poisoned. Cardan is angered by her never-ending lies and secrets, especially now that they're getting her seriously hurt. Tired of being left in the dark when they are supposed to be working together, Cardan and Jude fight, talk, and come to a realization about what they really mean to one another.Takes place sometime during The Wicked King, before Jude is taken by the Under Sea.Mostly Jude's First Person POV





	1. Venomous Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: in this first chapter, there is very slight mention of blood, wounds, passing out, and surgery. I recognize that this is a genuine trigger for people with certain conditions and previous experiences, and I feel you have the right to be fully informed before proceeding.

“Jude, your leg!”

I see the blood soaking through my hoes before I actually feel the pain. My arrow wound from the the attack last night – I could have sworn I stitched it together properly. Then again, I’m not known for being the most cautious needle-pointer. 

When the pain comes, I expect it and brace myself to shift my weight and walk away while preserving my dignity. I turn to Cardan, denial of the obvious problem ready on my lips. What I don’t expect, however, is the sway of dizziness that passes like a wave rippling over my body. The music and lights of the revel around us blur as if I’m submerged underwater trying to understand a message from above the surface.

I trip from my own lack of coordination and stumble against Cardan’s chest. He catches me by the shoulders, and I notice he turns our bodies away from the crowd so others don’t notice. 

“She’s clammy, covered in a sheen of cold sweat,” Cardan murmurs to the side of me. I just now notice the Roach standing at attention next to him. I internally criticize my own lack of observation and awareness of my surroundings, which seems ironic given the amounts of fluid physically covering my body and metaphorically fogging my brain.

“She has a human fever, more than just a surface level wound. She needs to be taken to the Bomb.” I remember the Roach telling me of his time in the mortal world, suddenly thankful for someone on this gods-damned island who knows of human health.

I feel hands on my back as the Roach and Cardan guide me away from the revel and towards the inner sanctum of the palace.

“How is the Bomb equipped to treat a mortal ailment?” Cardan questions, surprising me as he shifts my arm around his shoulders and supports some of my weight as we walk.

The Roach does the same with my other arm and replies, “Her specialty is working with herbs and chemicals, bending them to her will. Blowing things up is simply her preferred use of such power. She has likewise spent time in the mortal world.”

I lose focus of what they are saying soon after and place all of my effort on continuing to walk. This fever doesn’t make sense as it hit so suddenly. I was well enough all night, so I toy with the idea that I have come down with a mortal illness after visiting Vivi and Oak in the mortal world, independent of the wound on my thigh. 

It couldn’t be one of the common poisons as I’ve been consistent in my doses. Then I realize – the wound in my leg. Though they’re called poison-tipped blades, they aren’t actually covered in poison. Poisons have to be swallowed while venoms must be injected into the blood, like on the tip of the arrow that struck me yesterday. And poking myself with needles certainly hasn’t been a part of my daily mithridatism routine. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bleeding on a cot in the secret spy tunnels beneath an already-underground palace while a faerie, a goblin, and an Elvan king fuss over you really puts your life into perspective. 

I feel that the sheets under my palms are completely drenched. I don’t know if they’re wet with my blood or my sweat or even my own waste. But the truly worrying thought in my mind is that I don’t much care. In all my training, scheming, and fighting to acquire power, it seems fitting and macabrely poetic that my downfall should be to a human fever.

Cardan holds my head and shoulders flush against the pillow while the bomb does something medical I can’t comprehend to my thigh. I hear talk of a tourniquet, more bandages, clean water. But I am being submerged deeper and deeper into the well of my own thoughts and pay them no heed.

When I hear talk of an antidote, my mind clears very slightly.

“It’s a rare poison,” the Bomb says. I mentally correct her that it’s technically venom. “I found the antidote, but the book only gives dosages for the folk. There’s no mention of what will happen if given to a human.”

“Well, the alternative is to let her die,” Cardan argues sternly, a strange lack of sarcastic, deprecating humor in his voice, “so start mixing _something_ together.”

“Your majesty, she’s falling asleep. She needs to be kept awake!” the Bomb yells loud enough for even me to hear with my ears so clogged with fluid. I hadn’t realized I was listening to them speak with my eyes closed.

“Jude, Jude!” Cardan squeezes my shoulders and shakes my head until I can practically hear my brain rattling.

I try to say something intelligible. My thoughts seem to be working well enough after all. I try to remark on my current state, how I’m feeling, anything coherent. Apparently, my smartass side comes out as all I can manage to voice is, “Sleep is good for human fevers. Trust me, I’m a human.”

“Keep her awake long enough to drink the antidote. It isn’t so difficult to make, just a hard to come by recipe,” the Bomb says, for once dropping the “your Highness” epithet. Cardan doesn’t seem to mind.

I feel my eyes close this time, realizing how much nicer it feels to relax my eyelids instead of straining to keep them open.

“Jude,” Cardan warns. He repositions my body so my shoulders and head are supported on his lap. “I know you said you’d ‘show me true shame’ if I ever gave you orders again, but you need to be alive in order to carry out that threat. So, keep your mortal mind above the surface.”

I still lack reverence in my sickened state, so I don’t listen.

I feel his fingers on my neck then quickly switch to combing through my hair. I think this is his strange attempt at comfort until I feel his hands dig in my jacket pockets.

“I plead you aren’t wearing rowan berries or salt that I can’t see.”

I open my eyes slightly to ask him why, but I stop when I see his eyes glass over and hear the glamour in his voice.

_“You’re going to stay awake, Jude.”_

I’m so dazed in my own venom-filled demise that I don’t immediately deny his wishes.

_“You’ll stay awake, then drink your antidote, and only then may you sleep. When you wake, you will be healed. Do you understand me?”_

I don’t know if I’m more shocked that Cardan has tried to glamour me or at the realization that this is the first time he has ever attempted to do so. I think back to all of the times we’ve been alone, all of the times he’s wanted something from me, all of the times I’d stupidly not worn the for-show rowanberries as his seneschal. Of all the opportunities Cardan had to control me as I had controlled him, he had not taken them.

And now that he does, it is purely to my _benefit_ as opposed to a selfish geas. 

“Yes,” I croak out as to keep up my illusion of impotence. His face is serious, eyes stern and smile tight-lipped. He gives a curt nod before leaning back in is chair. I haven’t felt pressure or pain in my legs, though I know the Roach has been cutting my lackluster stitches and replacing them with appropriate ones. So when I feel Cardan’s fingers against on my head, I’m not sure if he’s combing my hair or massaging my scalp. Either way, feeling his touch at all is a strangely comforting relief. 

I stopped feeling his knees and thighs supporting my upper back a while ago, so I can’t hold myself up to drink the ridiculously bright yellow antidote that is held to my lips moments later. It’s absolutely disgusting, but I pretend I’m under Cardan’s geas to get it down all the way. 

My head is too heavy to keep upright for any longer, and I fall back with a perceived crash not dissimilar to the sound of two swords clanging together. I’m even more tired when my head is once again lying on Cardan’s lap. I don’t doubt the antidote is laced with a sedative so they can continue working on my wounded thigh. 

The last thing I think of before finally succumbing to sleep are the words of Cardan’s geas and if it’s possible there’s more than one way they can work.


	2. Venomous Words

My mind comes to before I gather the strength to open my eyes. I go over the events of what I hope occurred last night and not many nights ago. Though muddled, I still have a clear outline: _wound, venom, Cardan, geas._

I feel the bed sheets under my palms and am surprised to find them dry. Either I stopped bleeding long enough for them to dry, or someone had the mind to move me to a clean cot.

When I open my eyes, I’m surprised to find myself not on a cot at all. Rather, I’m in my bed in my palace apartments. I can tell that my bedding is new and sheets are clean by their look and feel. I never bother to change my sheets often as I rarely slept on them to begin with.

The rest of my room looks untouched in the organized chaos I prefer. It's empty save for me and an empty chair a safe distance from my bedside that has recently been occupied. The floor near the chair legs is a mess of junk: several small vials and half-filled glass orbs, a blade sharpener and oiling can, a bottle of faerie wine with a matching crystal goblet, and _several_ dirty tea cups.

Knowing the Court of Shadows, I see that they’ve checked in on me. Though I am surprised at the wine. I wouldn’t have expected Cardan to dote at my sick bed, though I also wouldn’t have expected him to allow my blood and sweat to tarnish his expensive revel evening-wear. 

I suppose if Cardan were to care for me while sick, it would require the influence of several glasses of wine.

Voices approached outside my door. Whoever is out there whispers, and I can’t make out exactly what they say. The Bomb and Cardan walk in but stop just past the doorframe at the sight of me sitting up in bed.

“Jude, you’re awake! How are you feeling?” she rushes towards me with a grace I envy, concern clear on her face. Cardan remains by the door, hands in his pockets and a blank expression I can't read on his face. 

“I’m think I’m healed,” I croak, and I don’t immediately recognize I’ve echoed the exact words of Cardan’s geas from last night.

“Where did you get that wound on your thigh? You were fine all night before collapsing and almost bleeding out. We were able to deduce you’d been poisoned, but how did you come into contact with a poisoned-infected blade?” the Bomb asks all at once somehow in a single breath.

Cardan hands me a glass of water over the Bomb’s shoulder, and I’m equally shocked and thankful for his help. I was parched. He returns to the door to call for food from a servant but remains stoically by the doorframe afterwards. 

I explain the story to them in as much detail as is necessary. The ride through the forest to Madoc’s, the masked riders, the arrow I took to the thigh, the fledgling battlefield stitches I gave with ridiculous purple embroidery thread.

“Why didn’t you tell us when it happened?” the Bomb asked. “I saw you were hurt. I made you that ointment, but it wasn’t a good time to ask for the full story.”

“It wasn’t important,” I reply. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, happy to see my thigh wound had scabbed over. Either the Roach’s stitches were made of magic or I had been asleep for longer that I’d hoped. “How long have I been asleep?”

The Bomb opened her mouth to answer, but Cardan spoke first. “No, Jude, answer the question. Why didn’t you tell us?” There’s agitation in his tone but he keeps his pitch level and voice steady. 

“I was attacked away from the palace. It didn’t concern the Court of Shadows,” I stand up, matching his tone of voice, “or _you_.”

“Or could it be that you’re scheming again? Things turn out perfectly every time Jude keeps her plans to herself, right?” he argues with more ire and scorn in his otherwise level voice. His statement is about as close to sarcasm as faeries can manage.

I step forward but almost trip into the pile of used teacups on my wobbly legs. Though my thigh wound is almost completely free of pain, the lack of circulation in my legs hasn’t fully recovered yet.

The Bomb puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me back into a sitting position on the bed. “You were asleep for about three nights. The antidote we used only had faerie dosages, and it knocked you out for longer than expected.” She stood and walked to the door, eyes shifting between Cardan and me as she went. “It’s early evening now, right when the kitchens have opened up. I’ll go check on breakfast and a tincture for you.”

The sound of the closing door left the two of us in a palpable silence. In true Jude-fashion, I was the first to break it.

“Did I do something while unconscious to make you this angry at me?” I ask sarcastically.

“Nothing new, Jude. Nothing you haven’t done before. Only this time, you’re lies and secrets nearly got you killed.”

“Cardan, I’m not scheming. You know as much as I do at this point. I was attacked in the woods on a ride to Madoc’s house. I was away from the palace, and it only looked like a simple wound I could take care of myself.” I feel my voice rising to make up for the distance between our bodies. I can’t properly get in his face to yell. “There was enough going on here for the Court of Shadows to worry about. Comparatively, it just wasn’t that important! Not to mention, I’d hate to interrupt your wine, sex, and debauchery to inform you of my mortal wound you don’t care about.” I don’t need to add in that last remark, but it isn’t anything I haven’t already scolded him on.

“As meticulous as you are, Jude, you’re not very skilled at grasping the larger picture,” he replies, his voice coming back down to a reasonable tone.

“What exactly does that mean?”

“The night I set my old rooms on fire, you had a bruise on your face. The first thing I did when you walked through the door was ask what happened. Don’t be so quick to assume you know what matters to me.”

I’m struck with the inability to respond. He’s twisting his words, playing one of his faerie games. And, he’s absolutely not insinuating he has any shred of care for me.

“And why have you decided now of all times to choose to care about anyone other than yourself?”

His anger is still visible on his face, in his eyes, but his voice betrays no emotion at all. “You already know I think of you often. You’ve known since that night in the hideout when you held a dagger to my neck and forced the words out of my mouth. It just so happens that since then I’ve stopped being particularly disgusted and afraid of my own thoughts.”

He turns to leave. His words spin in my still-muddled mind. I analyze his words, look for holes in his explanation, any wording that could be interpreted as technically-true if you squint. I still have questions, so many questions that I know I won’t have the courage to ask when I am back in my right state of mind. I can’t let him leave.

“Why did you glamour me!?” I call out, the words pulled out of my mouth before I can consider them. 

His hand is on my doorknob ready to turn it, but he looks over his shoulder with suspicion and speculation rimming his gaze.

“You didn’t order me not to remember. You have to be specific like that in Faerie.” I don’t know why I’m attempting humor at this point. “You’ve never tried glamouring me before. So, why now? Why only glamour me for my own good?”

He turns back to the door upon hearing the Bomb walk through with a tray of food in one hand and a vile of blue capsules in the other. Careful to not let the guards and servants see into my room, Cardan leaves, and the silence returns once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t see much of anyone for the rest of the night, trying to catch myself up on what I’d missed after three nights of being put under. The week long celebration leading up to Taryn’s and Locke’s wedding had continued without a hitch, leaving three more nights until the actual ceremony. While no one had noticed the missing seneschal except for my family, the revelers had definitely noticed the disappearance of their king. 

Cardan had apparently spent more time at my bed side than I’d originally thought, and the Court had spun tails of a fight between the king and Locke. The Roach had gone along with our plans, keeping watch over the revels and for signs of Orlagh making her move. As anticipated, nothing noteworthy had happened. Nicasia’s words of her mother planning to attack on the actual wedding night were seeming more and more trustworthy.

Without much to catch myself up on, I think often of what Cardan told me. My plans, my schemes, his care and concern. His accusations had taken me aback because, in reality, I had been trying to be more open with him. I took the Court’s advice and had been making an effort to tell Cardan of any new information that came our way and even listened to his ideas for solutions. Though I do admit that there are definitely gaps in my previously acquired information I’d yet to tell him. Namely, anything involving his mother.

Most of my thoughts linger on his parting words, the care and priorities he alluded to. I’d convinced myself over these last months that I knew Cardan. He swore himself to me, followed every command I gave him. He sought out my counsel above all others. I am the mortal who the High King cannot deny. And yet, it has taken me this long to admit that I truly don’t know him.

But then again, what does he know of me? My childhood? My family? My fears and motivations?

And it shakes me more than his geas to realize that he does, in fact, know me. Even down to the most traumatic events of my childhood, he and all of Elfhame know me – perhaps even better than I know myself.

And this is strangely not the scariest thought permeating my mind.


	3. Venomous Thoughts

The palace hallways are empty enough when I make the walk from my bedroom door to Cardan’s. It takes me longer than usual due to my leg, but a bath, clean clothes, and a good stretch can do wonders on a body sore from being bedridden.

The guards let me pass without fuss, probably used to my visits to his rooms at strange hours. It’s dark, and Cardan is lying in his bed. There are bioluminescent flowers growing from the branches on his ceiling that bathe his face in a cool purple glow.

“The bruise was from Balekin,” I say quickly without preamble, lending as much strength to my voice as I can muster.

“What are you doing in here?” he ignores what I’ve said, so I ignore his words in turn.

“Well, it came from Vulciber but at Balekin’s command. The first time I went to speak with Balekin in the Tower of Forgetting, he ordered Vulciber to strike me to show that he still has power over me,” I say it all so quickly in one breath and have to breathe heavily afterwards to make up.

He sits up in bed, and the glow of the overhead flowers highlights his pointed cheekbones. He tries to furrow his brows to appear angry, but his eyes only hold a confused stare. His appearance of anger follows through to his voice, though. “What is your point in telling me this? At this hour?”

“I just –,” I pause, realizing I don’t even really know the answer myself. “I just realized that I never answer your question that night about what happened to my face.” I shrug my shoulders. “You brought it up. Even if you don’t care, I though you should know.”

His expression turns expressionless, and his reply surprises me. “I'm aware that I’m not very smart.” He turns and puts his feet to the floor. “I’m intelligent, but I lack the drive to apply myself. I obviously don’t have your knack for politics and sword-fighting."

"I don't think you're dumb." In truth, I think he's far more cunning than even he knows. "That's not why I'm telling you this-."

He cuts me off and continues.

“Everyone has always treated me as though I am hopeless. My family never paid me any heed; teachers always gave me ungodly amounts of praise for accomplishing the minimalist of tasks and understanding the simplest of concepts. Eventually, I stopped caring and stopped trying.

“You never treated me as such. Whether it was conscious or not, you’ve always gotten up my ass about trying harder to succeed and caring about what I do. These last months, I’ve found myself actually paying attention to the things the Court of Shadows has been teaching me. To my surprise, I find I actually like what I’ve learned and can be quite skilled in espionage.”

As much as I’d lectured him, I’d never experienced the reverse. I don’t know how to react, so I settle for intense eye contact.

“Of course, the Bomb and the Roach still treat me with contempt. But, unlike other lessons, I’ve forced myself to progress when my teachers haven’t, and I’ve found success.”

I don’t know what I was expecting when I decided to speak with Cardan, but I certainly wasn’t expecting his manifesto on philosophy and education. My first thought is to tell him to get to the point, but I allow him to continue his story.

“So, it’s particularly infuriating to find you of all people treating me with such contempt as everyone else. All the while you’re forcing me to sit in on your lectures on policy, attend living council meeting I have no say in, and quite literally commanding me to appear as though I enjoy being king, you actively withhold the knowledge from me that a king should have. It feels as if I’m playing a game only you know the rules to.”

I don’t even think I myself know the rules to our game.

His voice transitions from anger to a faerie version of sarcasm, “I’m only notably skilled in the arts of drinking and sex, but you noticed my talents well enough. My only task thus far has been to seduce Nicasia for information. If not a born king, I may become a wondrous spy yet with such skills.”

He stands, turning away from me in the process.

“I’ve trusted you,” he says, voice becoming serious once more. “You ask why I've never glamoured you? I see your strength for policy where I am weak, and I trust you to make the best decisions. I’ve blindly gone along with all of your little plans and schemes because of that trust, though you certainly haven’t extended me any small amount of trust in return, in spite of my efforts. I’m quite literally controlled by you. I can’t turn against you even if I wanted to, yet still I’m not allowed to know any of the information and plans you have. The term ‘blindly’ in ‘blindly gone along’ isn’t literal, though that’s how you’ve clearly taken it.”

“I have been telling you things!” I interrupt Cardan before he can continue. He’s made points. He’s made some really valid points, but I need to get out what I have to say before I forget. “If trust is what you crave, then let me fill your plate aplenty.”

I fill him in on..._everything_. I tell him of my meetings with Balekin, the notes we’ve intercepted. At the mentions of his mother, I see him purposely try to maintain a calm composure, but his nervous gulps at his throat betray his discomfort. I even tell him of my mithridatism. The only thing I leave out is my immunity to glamours. 

“So why tell me all of this now? What’s changed?” he asks again.

I take the moment to uncharacteristically joke, “You said you weren’t scared of your emotions anymore. I can’t have you being more fearless than me.”

A heady silence stands between us. Cardan looks to his sheets, the floor, the flowers on the ceiling, but avoids eye contact with me. It becomes clear that I should leave humor to him and that our conversation has ended.

“I extend the same care to you that you’ve offered me,” I say as I walked to the door.

This gets his attention, and he looks up to raise an eyebrow in question.

"We've been at each other's throats since I was seven-years old. You've may not be a murderer, but every memory I have of you involves pain and embarrassment. You've made it very clear since the moment we met that you'd see every lowly mortal fear your power over them." My heart is beating faster and faster in my chest as I'm reminded of his cruelty, but I keep my voice steady. "How could I give you Hollow Hall, full of its glamoured human servants, and not fully expect you to abuse them in every way that didn't get them killed?"

The question is rhetorical, and he doesn't try to answer.

“But you make a good point that I overcompensated for my lack of trust for you. If you are genuine in your words, then you're right. We should be working together instead of against one another. If what you say is true and you do care about my wellbeing in some weird way, I extend the same courtesy to you." I remember what I'd thought the time I saw Balekin beat Cardan in Hollow Hall, his stare as blank as lead. His cruelty was crafted, not born. “I know the Court of Shadows harps on making sure the _King_ and the _Crown_ are safe, but I have some care leftover somewhere in my cold, dead heart to care for _Cardan_ as well.”

I take my leave at that.

I’ve just behaved completely unlike myself. The words I’ve spoken over the last several minutes have been the most uncharacteristic things I think I’ve said in my entire life. For once, however, I leave Cardan feeling as though I’ve finally spoken correctly.


	4. Venomous Dreams

*Third Person POV*

When the Bomb hears footsteps echoing down the tunnels of their hideout, she doesn’t expect to see the High King strut in. “Your majesty,” she greets with a nod of her head, “can I help you?”

Cardan looks across the table of vials so colorful that he doesn’t know the names for most of the shades. “You’re skilled in herbalism.” He means it as a question, though it comes out as more of a statement, almost an accusation.

“Of course. Is something plaguing Jude again?” 

His obsidian eyes somehow darken further at the mention of her name, a sign to the Bomb that the king and Jude were, in fact, still arguing.

“I’m afraid I’m the one finding myself in need of your expertise – and your discretion.” He closes the door behind him and approaches her worktable.

She sees the sharpness in his face inadvertently soften the smallest amount, a sign of his choice to reveal vulnerability. Something serious must afflict him. “What ails you?”

He sits down in a nearby chair opposite her, twiddling his thumbs in a most un-magisterial way. “I can’t sleep. I have nightmares almost every night that keep me awake.”

The Bomb had expected something more grand or challenging to solve. Somehow, the royal family had always seemed above the reaches of common ailments. She reaches for a jar of fluorescent purple leaves. “When do these nightmares wake you up. Early, almost at waking time? Or not soon after you’ve fallen asleep?”

“Depends,” Cardan replies, not meeting the Bomb’s eyes, “sometimes I’m woken in the middle of the day. Just as often, I wake to images of nightmares and the sound of Jude pounding incessantly on my door.”

She notes how his gaze stays calm this time at the mention of Jude’s name. “Then you require two tinctures. The first would be for nightmares, the dreams that plague you in the evening hours. And a more powerful one for night terrors, the images that come right when you close your eyes.”

He gives a curt nod, still finding his thumbs to be far more interesting than her face.

“It’s a common set of potions I should be able to make by night's end. May I bring them to your rooms this evening after dinner?” 

Instead of vocalizing, he gives another slight nod and stands quickly to leave, having bared enough vulnerability for one decade.

“Your majesty!” she calls after him. “May I speak freely?”

He looks annoyed at her remark, which was technically an improvement from his blasé expressions before. “You should all know I have not a single care to give for formalities at this point.”

“My potions are no antidote. They can treat the symptoms of your nightmares but not the root of the problem that causes them. I recommend speaking with a confidant to air your grievances.” He finally meets her eyes. They both know she is referring to a particular person. “I know this is not the kingly way, but it is the...healthier way, if you will.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” he clips, his exit just as quick as his reply.


	5. Venomous Truths

*Jude's POV

It’s strange to see the Bomb enter Cardan’s rooms this early in the day. I’d spent the new night, now in my right state of mind, reflecting on the discussions Cardan and I had had. And...I came over to review policy. I needed something I knew to tip the scales of our relationship back to normalcy. No matter how much we knew of one another, we operated as puppet master and marionette, our status quo that gave me comfort.

I don’t have time to say much before the Bomb walks in holding what looks to be a pot of salve and dropper bottle of golden liquid. She looks to me before quickly making eye contact with Cardan, a question gleaming in her eyes.

“Go on,” he permits, indicating he'd been expecting her.

She looks surprised but continues. “Apply this salve behind your ears each day about half an hour before going to sleep.” She hands him the tin I’d correctly identified as a balm. “If you wake from night terrors in the middle of the day, put one vile of this golden liquid in a glass of water. Wait five minutes for it to turn purple, then drink it all quickly. It’s a very mild sedative that should allow you to sleep the remainder of the day undisturbed without becoming comatose for several hours.”

Cardan nods, reaching for the bottle and placing the medicines on the table next to his bed.

“Don’t be exorbitant, but you can use two vials if needed.” The Bomb turns to leave but allows her eyes to shift back and forth between Cardan and me a few times before exiting.

Nightmare – _night terrors?_ In my search for normalcy, I shouldn’t be surprised find the rug ripped out from under my feet.

Cardan does not surprise me, however, when he fills a goblet of water and dissolves four large vials of the golden liquid directly against all of the Bomb’s instructions.

I’m not sure what to address first: the existence of Cardan’s nightmares, the fact that he independently sought help, or his blatant disregard to dosages. I decide upon a question that covers all of my bases.

“Are your nightmares so bothersome that they require such a heavy quelling?”

He leaves the mixture to seep and moves to sit at the round table in the corner of the room, and I follow to sit across from him. I half expect him to refuse to answer, throw me out, draw down his side of the curtain we both keep between us. He doesn’t, though. Dragging us even farther from the realm of normalcy, he takes me up on my offer of listening to him. _Caring for him?_

“Nightmares are nothing new to me,” his voice is steady as he clasps his hands on the table top. “But they have become particularly unconscionable as of late. Night terrors, as I’ve learned they are called, have been particularly bothersome.” His attempt at dark comedy through understatement doesn’t go unnoticed.

I note his pallid complexion, the bruises under his eyes, signs of a weak constitution I’d been dismissing as too much wine and reveling. 

“What are your nightmares and night terrors about recently?” My question is direct, and I don’t leave room for him do get out of answering. For once, though, I doubt he will try.

“Oh, it depends how fucked up my mind feels like being that day. Sometimes I relive my entire family’s murder. At the hands of Balekin, at the hands of Madoc, sometimes even at my own hand. It’s particularly maddening when I only hear their screams from a distance. After all, I was too belligerent to actually see their deaths in real life,” his voice is scoffing and self-deprecating, not his typical style of humor.

“Other days I am back in Hollow Hall, on my knees being whipped.” His eyes meet mine for a short moment, returning to his fingers resting on the table. We both know exactly to what he’s referring. “Sometimes Balekin holds the whip, or my father, meaningless servants,” his eyes snap up to meet mine again, “sometimes _you._”

I’m desensitized to violence. Threats, torture, murder. I’ve inflicted it. I’ve experienced it. I’ve grown up in a house raised by the man who killed my parents in front of me. According to Valerian, I am cursed three times over to always be followed by death.

The images Cardan describes are grotesque, but nothing surprising or unexpected. Madoc killing his family. Balekin whipping his back. These have all happened in real life. It never has registered that, in Cardan’s mind on some twisted level, I could be placed in league with the other villains of our story.

I don’t reply. I stare, asking for it to be a joke. For clarification. For anything. 

“In the most delightful renditions, someone rips up the lashes with their bear hands after dealing them. I’ll spare you the guilt, though. I always wake before I can turn around to see who does it.”

It’s my turn to become preoccupied with my fingers.

“I assure you, the night terrors are much more fun. I’ll have to tell you another time.”

His glass turned a dark purple hew long ago though he has yet to reach for it. I suddenly don’t blame him for wanting such a complete disconnect during sleep.

What am I supposed to respond with: should I thank him for being open and honest with me? Defend myself to preserve my dignity? Apologize for quite literally being his worst nightmare? 

I try to bargain, say that I’ve never hurt Cardan as Madoc, Balekin, and even his father have. But I can’t bring myself because I know better than anyone, as a human who grew up in Faerie, that wounds extend passed our skin. 

I think back to all I’d done to Cardan, the orders I’d given and the lies I’d told. Had I ever asked Cardan how he felt upon the death of his family? Had I even allowed him the chance to grieve? Or had I taken his oath, given him a false sense of security, and placed a crown on his head before his siblings’ bodies had even turned cold?

I look back up to meet his eyes. He is neither angry nor vulnerable. He is stern, but his jaw lacks its usual tightness. His brow seems relaxed at his admissions, though he remains guarded.

I try to remember how many times over the past year that I’d asked Cardan how he was doing, how he was feeling. And for once in all of this, I’m not surprised to realize he has asked me ‘how are you’, shown more care, in these last months than I had perhaps shown anyone.

_Maybe I am a villain after all. In his eyes, at least._

“I’m sorry I’m as bad a Balekin in your dreams,” I admit stoically. I still don’t see myself as objectively bad as Balekin or Madoc in my actions. But I do concede to comparable behavior in our treatment of Cardan directly.

He lets out a breathy laugh and leans back in his chair, crossing is arms to his chest. “Don’t flatter yourself to such a degree. I can’t control my dreams; I’m no seer. You certainly are not as conniving as Balekin. You have surpassed Madoc, however.”

The humorous jab doesn’t improve my mood in the slightest. 

I’ve said I care for him, so I should start making the effort now. “When is the last time you slept soundly? Without nightmares?”

He gives another breathy chuckle. “Oddly enough, the night my family was murdered.”

I raise my eyebrows, inquiring for more details.

“Sleeping on a cot as a prisoner in the Court of Shadows at knifepoint was the first time I slept soundly in recent memory.” I remember Cardan in his coronation attire on the threadbare cot, using his jacket as a pillow and sleeping soundly. I’d remarked at the oddity of seeing the selfish, spoiled prince adapt so well to a modest abode. I hadn’t thought it possible that any amount of sleep was, in actuality, a luxury itself.

“I thought that maybe sleeping among people was the solution. Busy nights and busier days to tire the mind,” he continues, and I picture his countless wine-drunk days with countless courtiers dripping off of him. “Those methods proved ineffective.

“On another strange note, sleeping in your rooms the day after Nicasia tried to shoot me kept the nightmares at bay. Perhaps I am calmed by violence after all.”

My eyes shot up at that. “What did you say?” Somehow, I’m the subject of his nightmares _and_ a barrier against them? The poison cannot be the cure as well– 

“Perhaps I sleep better with a pile of bodies under my bed as you do,” he repeats incredulously. I know he’s referring to Valerian’s body I’d kept under my bed. My first kill seems like a faerie’s infinite lifetime ago.

“Perhaps your thoughts are quelled by safety.” I continue. He raises an eyebrow and folds his hands once again on the table. “Maybe you feel safe in the hideout, you trust the Court of Shadows, at least more than you trusted Balekin and your father. 

“Dreams prepare our minds for how to deal with life’s events. So, maybe your mind never felt safe enough to–,” I almost can’t believe what I’m saying, “prepare you for the worst.”

He takes his time to think it over, an uncommon feat in itself. “I suppose, Jude, that you are once again both the cause and solution to my problems.”

His eyes indicate he’s returned to his normal threads of humor. He means it in jest, to get a rise out of me, or perhaps to lighten the discussion. I don’t give in.

“Let me know how your tinctures work. If I can be of help, call for me.” I stand up quickly and walk to the door. Perhaps I am being selfish, every bit the villain his dreams make me out to be, but I need to be alone with my own thoughts for a moment. I need to figure out what is it that I actually feel.

“Will you stay?” he calls out, standing up just as quickly. I pause. That is the exact opposite of what I want. But, does what I want even matter at this point?

I turn to face him and see the uncertainty in his expression; he’d meant to stop me from leaving but not with such direct words. 

“Is there something else you wanted to discuss?” I wipe my sweaty hands on my thighs, rubbing too hard over my nearly-healed wound. I try to keep my voice steady.

“I mean,” a look of acceptance and finality consumes him, “would you consider sleeping here. Today.” I truly don’t know how to respond. “It worked last time, so why not now?” he explains. 

I have no reason to say no. We’d been intimate before. We’d shared looks and touches and stories of ourselves no one else knew. I grasp that Cardan is the only person I’ve vocalized my fears of being a mortal in Faerie to, a weakness I’d go to my grave to protect. 

As many curtains that separate Cardan and I, they're only mere curtains controlled by a single string, after all. We both have the strength to lift them at any time.

“Okay,” I agree. His only reply is a nod. And as I walk farther back into his room, I reassure myself with the knowledge that the key ingredient to any anti-venom…is the venom itself.


	6. The Antivenom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feb 24, 2020 Update: I feel the need to mention that the entire bit about snake venom and chopping off a snake's head was written well before The Queen of Nothing was released... OK then, enjoy.

To make antivenom, you chop off the snake's head and collect their venom. Then, you must inject the venom into the person, collect the antibodies from their blood, and re-administer it to the victim. In much the same way, I feel as though my heart has been ripped from my chest, drained of its contents, and shoved back inside my body. I don't know what to expect now, and I'm nervous. My hands keep sweating no matter how many times I wipe them off.

When they were treating me, the Bomb was able to neutralize the toxins in my leg instead of hunting down antivenom in the back alleys of Elfhame. It's an easier process, but it's similar to cheating. When you go through the trouble of making antivenom, you are immune. It is the ultimate in mithridatism. You need never worry about facing the rage of that venom again. 

If you simply neutralize the toxins, however, you must fear that venom for the rest of your life. Your body forgets to treat the toxin as a threat and welcomes it happily into your system. It will certainly kill you during your next encounter, slowly at first then all in one go. 

You are only afforded one dance with death.

It is intimate enough that I am wearing one of Cardan’s shirts to sleep in, not wanting the embarrassment of entering his rooms late at night again. I don’t cross the boundary of using his bathing tub or changing in front of him. I claim a small chair in his otherwise egregiously large chambers to collect my things: day clothes, weapons, a useless bag of salt I carry for show.

Cardan typically sleeps naked and has made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t care who sees him in such a state. I turn on my side away from him for my own sense of dignity and scoot to the farthest end of the bed. 

I don't know what roles we play in each other's stories anymore. I've forgotten who is the venom and who is the victim. I don't know how much of ourselves we must bleed, how many secrets we much each lay out on the table, in the hopes of curing the other. Though I doubt either of us has much more to give as it is.

"We haven't even begun hunting down those who attacked you," Cardan says as he exists the bathing room. Of course _now_ he decides to discuss policy.

"That's a minuscule problem compared to Orlagh. Let's deal with one threat before venturing into more," I reply, pulling the blanket up to my chest.

The pressure on the sheets shift as he climbs into bed, snapping the lights off on his way. The bioluminescent flowers on the ceiling glow in the otherwise pitch black room.

“Do they mean something?” I ask, turning back to look at Cardan now modestly under the covers.

He shrugs. “I don’t control them. The land does as it wills.” I’m about to correct him. He does control the land, the source of his power as High King. The Court of Shadows and I had discussed Cardan’s lack of power possibly being due to his view of himself: if he views himself as a spy more than a king, then it makes sense he wouldn’t be able to access his power. 

Now, it occurs to me that, perhaps, Cardan has chosen to give the land the freedom he never had, the freedom he still doesn’t possess even as king. The freedom he’s inconspicuously given me with no glamours, the Court of Shadows with their free tongues, his subjects with their familiarity.

I know I don’t agree with his decision, and I know even more strongly that he will need control of his power someday soon with so many political alliances falling through. However, I can’t bring myself to tell him anything about it. This is his one source of power that no one, not even me, can influence. And the fact that Cardan has decided to not claim it, a decision I never would have made myself, speaks volumes.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Cardan?” I whisper. “Are you asleep?”

I roll over onto my back and catch Cardan in a similar position. He doesn’t reply verbally, but we face each other nonetheless. Though his eyes are open, his face is placid, similar to the way he appears when he sleeps. 

I don’t know what I’m doing, don’t know what I’d wanted from him when I called him over. But on this day where we’re allowing ourselves to be honest and vulnerable, I stop being afraid of my emotions. For once, I take Cardan of all people’s advice and allow myself to act in the way my body wants. If we are both poison, then so let it be.

Still nervously holding the blanket between my fists, I lean towards Cardan and kiss him. It lasts only a moment before I pull away and scan his eyes for an indication of how he feels. The glowing flowers overhead suddenly turn from a dull blue to a brilliant violet, and we both become distracted by them.

_They do mean something,_ I think. Though Cardan looks just as confused by the event as I feel. We turn back to one another and, this time, kiss mutually.

I remember the other times we’d kissed, my eyes closed so I didn’t see who made me feel such a way. The forbidden nature of our actions being the source of half the thrill. Those experiences were fast and distracted by my inner thoughts telling me I should leave.

This time, I focus only one what I’m doing and what Cardan is doing to me in turn. I keep my eyes open for longer than even my inexperience knows I should, but I want to see what I’ve denied myself for long enough and finally allowed myself access to.

I don’t say ‘I hate you’. I don’t know if it would be a lie or the truth or shade of gray in the middle. There are parts of Cardan I truly hate, and things he has done in the past that I will never forgive. We disagree on some issues and hold different values. This is all plainly obvious.

However, there is an understanding between us, a similarity perhaps no one can see. Dreamers brought up in a land ruled by nightmares. Two people ashamed of their own weaknesses, hiding behind his sarcasm or my stubbornness simply to survive.

I close my eyes and entwine my fingers in the black curls of his hair. His hands come to embrace me and rest on the small of my back. It’s like floating, being swept up in a gust of wind, the fear of falling dissipating when you realize you have wings. 

His arms wrapped around me pull me in tighter, and our chests press together. My arm goes numb supporting the weight of his head, but I don't much care. My emotions have been numb for so long that their revival is all that matters.

I once again feel like I’m underwater. Though this time, it’s a markedly more enjoyable experience than when I was dying. I feel like I am simultaneously being lifted out of my body and brought to my knees. Kissing Cardan sans denial feels better than when it was forbidden.

I meet his gaze when my eyes open again, and we pause as the flowers glow purple to red and through the colors of a rainbow against the darkness. He kisses me again, and it feels like the geas he put on me: he technically wasn’t controlling me, but why would I want to disobey? 

Where there was sinister pleasure before, this feels more like a reward. It has the feel of opening Yuletide presents, landing a flip after a hundred falls, what I imagine it feels like to be crowned with Mab’s Blood Crown.

We’re tangled in the fabric of the sheets, though neither of us seems to care. The flowers above settle on an emerald green color not dissimilar to newly sprouted leaves after the first spring rain. It smells like jasmine and lemon verbena, and the air in the room turns hot and humid on my skin. I move my hands down his back, his scars rough against the brutal callouses on my hands, and I hope I can convey the same reverence with my fingers that he kisses me with. 

My heart hammers against my chest as his beats heavily against my hands on his back. His fingertips move up to my hair and neck, and their lightness sends shivers down my spine. We spend much of our night in the same way, walking through each other’s curtains until we operate on the same, singular stage. We trade kisses and caresses until we’re too tired to untangle ourselves, and we sleep in the interwoven mess of our limbs and sheets. My arms are completely numb half supporting his weight, but I don't much care for physical comfort when my heart finally feels so at ease.

When I finally wake up, I notice two things: Cardan is sleeping soundly, and the goblet on his nightstand filled with dark purple liquid is still full to the brim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read this story to the end. I had such a fun time writing it and reading all of your lovely comments. I've gone back and re-stylized the other chapters in this story, adding italics and such now that I know how to do so. One of the troubles I had with this story was deciding how to approach "day" and "night" since the fae are nocturnal but not everyone necessarily remembers that. Upon reread, it was just messy. So, I doubled down and made their nocturnal schedule more obvious in the ways they speak.
> 
> I truly hope everyone has enjoyed it, and best of luck getting through to November for The Queen of Nothing. It's sure to be epic.
> 
> Lots of love & happy reading!


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